


i'm sure this time is different

by violetchachkii



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Character Study, Child Abuse, M/M, Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:02:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22415191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetchachkii/pseuds/violetchachkii
Summary: The thing Jaskier knew about men was that they were trouble. You could befriend them, share a drink or meal with them even, but never bed them. It was when the bedding began that the troubles started. No, he had sworn off men for the rest of his days. Women were just fine for his sexual appetites.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 1012





	i'm sure this time is different

**Author's Note:**

> So everything in this fic is my made up version of Jaskier's past based on the song ["All You Wanna Do"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8J9n2hFI2bs) from the musical _Six_. This is based largely on the canon of the TV show with some information from the books thrown in for plotting. I have not read the books so all information comes from my outside research. For example, I have skipped over some events in the books because they don't align with the show canon. Original characters are made up for the purpose of this fic. Also, Jaskier is called Julian for some of this fic, in case there is confusion.
> 
> Feedback and kudos are appreciated

Julian’s eyes watered as the cane came down on his bare thigh. It was a long, slender piece of wood, with little give. It promised welts that would stay with him for days, aching and purpling beneath his assaulted skin. The wielder was haphazard with their strikes, caring little for where their blows landed. One would lick into Julian’s thigh, the next cracking on the bone of his back, another against his exposed arse. He lost count after he felt the twentieth lash strike his tender flesh.

It was all because he couldn’t shut his big mouth. At thirteen, Julian realized his inability to be quiet was bound to be a lifelong affliction. He took a vow of silence every morning before walking to the temple. He would never utter another word to a single soul. He would be the picture of a model student, praised for his piety and profound intelligence. His new calling typically ended about mid-morning when a jape or scathing remark tumbled from his mouth faster than he could catch his tongue. 

His words, his jokes, his clever quips, they all ended for him with over the block, his arse bared to both man and god. He no longer prayed while taking the blows. He stopped that nonsense when he knew his words fell on deaf ears. Begging for forgiveness did little to help his situation, so he stopped that too. As he grew towards manhood, he was able to pass the punishment with a gritted-out joke or errant moan of pantomimed sexual pleasure. Those attempts left his bottom riddled with sores where the cane had broken his skin. It took days for the marks to crack and bleed, making every chair and bench a beacon of torture. It was upon his thirteenth birthday that he created a new resolution for himself. He would take the hits with a quiet dignity, neither pleading nor teasing. He would keep his eyes closed and take his punishment.

Julian’s walk home after that particular punishment (he couldn’t recall exactly what comment did him in. Maybe his suggestion of Emilia’s newly plumped bosom as an example of multiplication) saw him limping with every step. He longed for the salve of chamomile and cloves his mother had waiting for him at home. The cooling paste would surely soothe the particular fire burning along his backside. His mother may even call for a bath for him. He closed his eyes while taking his meandering, unsteady steps, imagining the water swallowing him up, loosening the ache he felt deep in his bones.

It was while he was walking that his ears fell upon the sound of music. A lute played a soft melody while a voice sang out a ballad Julian had heard many times before. His family had encountered its fair share of minstrels, many offering their services in exchange for their coin and a bed to sleep in. Julian loved the sound of music around him, though he was bane to admit it to a single soul. Especially not his younger sister. He was almost a man grown! Men delighted little in song and dance. Blood, battle, and ale were the only pleasures that filled a man’s heart and his belly. Their only rival was a comely woman in his bed. He was not going to be a traitor to his entire sex by sharing his love of a strumming lute and fancy words. Instead, he would nod firmly when he saw the bard at work and say nothing more.

Julian set his jaw and continued on, glimpsing once to his left to get a quick view of the man so eagerly sharing his song. At least, it was meant to be a quick look. Instead, Julian’s eyes lingered, practically glued to the man before him. The only word to describe him was beautiful. Straw blond hair curled on his forehead and meadow green eyes blinked behind long lashes. He didn’t wear the extravagant garb of a typical minstrel, but rather dressed in a modest tunic and leather trousers. He had at least a decade on Julian in age.

Those beautiful eyes met Julian’s and his chest clenched. It wasn’t like when he saw a beautiful maid or stared at one of the girls in his classes. This man’s stare filled his belly with fire and dried his throat. He wanted nothing more than to run his fingers through those thick curls. Julian’s fingers itched with his want. The thrumming deep in his gut made any pain still stinging his backside quiet. Part of him wanted to run, or to buckle over at the sensation. He told himself over and over to do just that. But his legs didn’t listen, carrying him closer to the man with the lute.

As Julian grew near, a knowing smile flickered on the bard’s features. He continued his playing and singing, eyes locked on the boy approaching him. Julian stopped in front of him, fists clenching at his side and he tried to strike up some courage. His heart thudded against his ribs, urging him on. _Open your mouth_ , it said. It was no time for silence.

“What are you doing?” he barked out, his voice sounding so young compared to the smooth baritone of the singer.

“Telling stories,” the man quipped back, a smirk in his voice as he played a chord on his lute. His fingers were nimble, moving between the strings with practiced flourish. Julian’s eyes held on his skilled digits for a few moments before returning to his mossy green stare.

“Why?”

Another smirk and another chord came. “I’m a storyteller.”

Julian huffed a little. He wasn’t stupid. And why was this strange man so enticing while being a smarmy arsehole? It made no sense to Julian’s childish sensibilities.

“I’m Elliol.”

A beat of silence.

“Julian.”

**▲ ▲ ▲**

It took far less effort than Julian originally thought to convince his mother he needed a music tutor. She questioned only briefly that he had never appeared to take interest in the arts. He needed only to make up a story about his newfound passion for the subject for her to accept his request. He even had the perfect teacher lined up. For a handful of coins a week, Elliol would dedicate his time and every ounce of his skills to teaching Julian the finer arts.

Julian took easily to the lute. Once his fingers healed from their first bout of blisters, he found the movement from chord to chord relaxing. Elliol was a skilled teacher, placing his hands exactly where they needed to be to make the right sound come out. He spoke gently with words of encouragement. Julian tried to ignore how every touch made his skin feel on fire. He spent his time trying to focus on the instrument and nothing else. If he even deigned to look at Elliol for too long, his chest would ache for minutes. The pleased smiles and playful winks thrown his way were far too much for his poor heart to take.

It was a week before Julian’s fourteenth birthday that their relationship changed.

Julian worked tirelessly through the new song Elliol had taught him. It was the most challenging thus far. The callouses on his fingers remained sore and he flicked from string to string. A wrong note and Julian thrust the lute to the ground with a huff.

“I can’t do it! It’s too hard!” he complained, crossing his arms over his chest.

Elliol walked to him with his usual confident steps. He grabbed the lute from the floor, setting it gently on the table beside the chairs in the parlor. The room was empty beside the two of them, Julian demanding privacy for his lessons. Elliol strode closer and put a hand gently on Julian’s elbow.

“You can. I know you can. You are more capable than you think,” Elliol promised. His voice was smooth and lyrical. Even when he spoke it was like he was spinning a tale or singing a song. Julian was completely enchanted.

“I don’t understand it,” Julian replied in a voice much softer than his original complaints. He felt stripped bare just by his soft words.

“You’re thinking too hard. You need to feel the music.”

Elliol grabbed the lute from the table and placed it in back in Julian’s lap. A larger hand enveloped Julian’s. He was deft and gentle in arranging his fingers on the correct strings. A shiver ran up Julian’s spine at the touch. He was sure Elliol could feel him quaking under his touch. When he was instructed to strum, he did. A long, resonating chord came from the lute. Another adjustment and the next rang out. It was beautiful, the way the song flowed from their combined hands. Julian felt near to bursting.

As the final chords of the song died under his fingers, Julian looked up at Elliol. A soft smile down at him and he could take it no longer. Julian surged up, meeting their lips in a quick, clashing kiss. The second it was over, he pulled back and covered his mouth.

“I’m so sorry!” he exclaimed, clambering up from his seat and stepping back. How could he have done that? Elliol was this beautiful, talented man and Julian was just…a child. That was all he could be in the eyes of his teacher. Thirteen and uneducated in the ways of the world. There was no possible way a man like Elliol would reciprocate his childish crush.

“Hey, don’t be sorry,” Elliol replied, barely above a whisper. The lute was forgotten on the chair as he stepped closer to Julian. His hands found his arms, holding him firm at the elbows. Julian wanted to flinch and wiggle away. The scrutiny of his touch was too much for such a weak soul. But he didn’t retreat, as much as he longed to. He stayed firm while a hand slipped from his elbow to gently cradle his waist.

Elliol was the one to initiate the kiss this time. He brushed their lips together, soft and pliant as opposed to Julian’s rough peck. Julian welcomed him into his mouth instantly, deepening their kiss further. It was long, tongues moving rhythmically as Julian learned lesson after lesson on what made a good kiss. He was breathless by the time they pulled apart.

One kiss turned to two, then three, then more. A day spent sharing kisses became days and weeks. Julian learned how to make Elliol moan for him, making beautiful noises that could rival his best singing. He felt their passion in his fingers and toes, deep in his chest and radiating through his stomach. He also couldn’t forget how the fire burned down to his loin, hot between his legs.

It was three weeks into their kisses that Elliol directed Julian’s hand to his hard cock, straining beneath his leather trousers. Julian, eager to please, took him in his hand and brought him to a quick release. This continued daily for weeks. Elliol would whisper how beautiful he was, how perfect he was for him, how badly he wanted him, while Julian tugged him to completion. Elliol never offered touches in return and Julian never asked. He was happy enough to feel that beautiful member in his hand. He was happy enough to feel wanted.

**▲ ▲ ▲**

“You’re leaving?” Julian asked, watching as Elliol slipped his things into the large pack he carried with him. His lute was tucked carefully away in its case, slung over his shoulder. The last item was laid in its pack and Elliol was tucking his bag under his arm. He turned to Julian with a sympathetic look on his face.

“The King of Creyden is looking for a new personal bard. He will pay handsomely for the service,” Elliol explained. He took steps passed Julian, but was caught when his arm was grabbed by him.

“Take me with you,” Julian pleaded. He was fourteen now. He was a man. It was about time he set out on the open road and explored the world. Creyden was said to be beautiful in the winters. He thought he might like to see snow like that.

Elliol sighed. “Julian, you are a child. I cannot take you on such a journey.”

Julian opened his mouth to plead but was silenced by a severe look from Elliol. He swallowed his protests, the lost words feeling like ice in his throat. Didn’t Elliol understand that he loved him? He wanted him like he had never wanted another soul. He was willing to forget everything to follow him. He would follow him to the end of the world if he wanted.

Another sigh and another look from Elliol and then he was on his way. Julian watched, tears stinging and clouding his vision. He waited, breath held, for him to just look back. See him and know this was stupid. He could stay with them and keep teaching him how to be better. Julian would improve his music and his love making. All he wanted was a chance. But no look came and soon, Elliol disappeared from Julian’s vision.

**▲ ▲ ▲ ▲ ▲ ▲ ▲ ▲ ▲**

Julian swore off men after his encounters with Elliol. They were nothing but trouble. Women, on the other hand, were easy. They were soft and made the most beautiful noises. He never had to work hard to get a woman into his bed. A look and a whisper were usually enough. He became a professional in his craft, learning just how to make any woman beneath him bellow in pleasure.

Time passed.

Oxenfurt was the next logical step in Julian’s life. Since his lessons with Elliol, he was drawn to the arts. Some days he played his lute until his fingers bled, blisters forming and breaking open all in one day. The music wrapped around him like a protective shell, a caterpillar in a cocoon. Soon the chords no longer reminded him of his teacher.

School and classes had never been where he thrived. He remembered painfully the way the cane came down on him during his younger school days. So as he stalked towards the office of the Dean of Trouvereship and Poetry, he was already preparing for the worst. He had a feeling he would leave the meeting with much more than a red bottom. Especially after seeing Professor Reurig in the weeks prior.

The Professor was a man of stocky stature with a thick black beard. It was said he spoke thirteen languages and played seven instruments. He was the most qualified man in all the Continent to instruct bright young minds of the majesties of the arts. He prided himself on all of his students becoming famous across the Continent, winning permanent positions in kingdoms across the land. He was not a man to be trifled with, and yet here was Julian, approaching the den of the beast.

He knocked on the heavy oaken door. There was a beat of silence before a stern “enter” was groused behind the door. Julian opened it as he was instructed, slipping in and closing the heavy wood behind him.

His eyes flitted around the office, taking in all the artifacts. He counted only six instruments in different states throughout the space. Two large bookcases lined the walls, filled to bursting with different volumes and tomes. In the middle of it all, just a few paces in front of Julian, was a large mahogany desk. Covered in papers and pots of ink, the desk stood proudly as the centerpiece of the office. And behind it sat its owner, looking just as grim as Julian remembered.

“Professor Reurig?” he began, joining his hands behind his back. Julian waited for the great man to look up. When he did, he met Julian’s eyes in a heavy stare.

“You’re Julian?” the man asked, voice thick. He replaced the quill in his hand in its pot. He rubbed at the armrests of his sturdy chair before standing. Once he was on his feet, Julian was reminded how imposing he was. It took every ounce of courage not to wince away from the large man.

Every step towards him had Julian’s heart racing. What was going to be done to him? He wanted to protest, say that he had apologized for his remark about another student’s panflute and where they could put it. It was only a joke, said in frustration of having to listen to his incessant playing of the same three notes. A musical connoisseur like the Professor would surely understand Julian’s frustration. He opened his mouth to make his protestations, but nothing came out.

“I have heard a great deal about you,” Reurig began, tucking his spectacles in a cloth he retrieved from his pocket. He took another step. “Your other professors have told me of your remarkable talent.”

Julian’s mouth flopped like a fish as he tried to gather his thoughts. Was this a punishment? Why was he being praised if he was about to be beaten or expelled? His teachers had said that he was talented? He thought for sure their only thoughts about him were exasperation.

“I am looking for a new student to be my secretary,” the Professor continued, not allowing Julian to get a word in. Another step and he was only inches from Julian. “After hearing of your prowess, I would like to offer you the position. I believe it will be a great learning opportunity for you.”

A job? The dean had called him to his office to offer him a job? He had spent all of his time preparing for the worst. He had missed sleep worrying about his punishment and there was none to come. Though what did he know? Maybe a secretary position with Reurig would be its own kind of punishment. But any treatment was better than expulsion.

“I’ll take it.”

**▲ ▲ ▲**

Julian’s hands grasped for purchase on Professor Reurig’s desk. Behind him, the professor was thrusting powerfully into him, skimming the bundle of pleasure deep inside him. Julian’s chest hit the desk with a _thunk_ on every forward movement. His nipples were rubbed raw from the wood of the desk. The sensitivity of their touch on the cool surface pushed him further towards climax. He grabbed for something, anything to hold onto, and finally settled on a stack of parchment. He had spent hours copying down the Professor’s words in his practiced penmanship. _Fuck it_ , he thought, _I can redo it_.

Reurig finished a few moments later, deep inside of Julian. Julian ran his fingers furiously over his own length, bringing himself to a quick finish as the Professor withdrew from his body. He collapsed for a few beats on the desk, catching his breath and riding out the waves of pleasure. Shortly after he was handed a handkerchief and wiped both himself and the desk clean.

Right as Julian prepared to stand, a thick arm surrounded his waist. He was pulled to Reurig’s chest, the buttons of his doublet and tunic open so Julian could feel his sweat-matted chest hair against his bare back. A sigh and Julian laid his head on the shoulder offered. A messy kiss attacked his shoulder and then neck. Julian closed his eyes, basking in the closeness.

“My beautiful little buttercup,” Reurig whispered in his ear, rubbing the knuckles of his right hand across Julian’s cheek. He smiled and huffed a small laugh. “My Jaskier.”

Julian smiled and turned his head. He kissed the knuckles so close to his mouth. A small smile and then a kiss on his lips followed. He sighed into the mouth atop his own.

_Jaskier_ , he thought. _I like the sound of that_.

**▲ ▲ ▲**

Jaskier hummed a thoughtless tune to himself as he walked down the familiar hallway to Professor Reurig’s office. He had been there nearly every day for a year, and he knew the walk by heart. He was halfway through a song about that walk. There was a great metaphor in there. A courageous knight returning to a giant he had fallen in love with. It was awfully poetic.

He arrived at the door and opened the heavy wood. What greeted him was the familiar sound of the great mahogany desk _thumping_ and labored breathing. There, right before his eyes, Reurig was holding a new student, one Jaskier had only seen in passing, by the hips and fucking into him with abandon. The young student cried out in pleasure and then confusion when the Professor pulled out quickly upon seeing Jaskier.

Blood rushed to Jaskier’s ears. He could hear the helpless thudding of his heartbeat. His limbs grew heavy, despite how he turned and ran off as quick as his body could take him. He felt like he was stumbling drunk, his brain trying to wrap around what he had just seen.

“Jaskier!” Reurig called, pulling his trousers up his legs as he ran after him. Jaskier only stopped when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Leave me alone,” Jaskier hissed, pushing the meaty paw from his body. Reurig removed his hand, but it didn’t stop his mouth.

“You are going to be finishing your programs soon, Jaskier,” he began, his breathing still slightly heavy with the effort of his fucking and his chase. “I am going to need a new secretary.”

“So that’s all we are then? Some hole for you to fuck until we get too worn for you and you need a new one?” Jaskier challenged. He clenched his fists. He wasn’t a particularly violent man. He actually had quite the aversion to it. But he was not above swinging if another movement was made.

“It…Jaskier,” the Professor began, sighing heavily. He took in a deep breath. “Gulet. There is a lord there looking for a permanent minstrel there. I have sent a letter recommending you for their service.”

Jaskier was silent. He had no idea about the letter. He was the one who managed the Professor’s post. It must have been written and sent in secret. But why? Why was Reurig recommending him for a courtly position if he planned on setting him aside? Why would be do him that kindness and then hurt him as he did?

Professor Reurig took another labored breath. “Go there Jaskier. You will do well. I have trained you well.”

**▲ ▲ ▲ ▲ ▲ ▲ ▲ ▲ ▲**

Lord Gustall wrote his acceptance of Jaskier’s service a fortnight after Jaskier’s final encounter with Professor Reurig. His programs would end soon and he would be on his way to Gulet. The journey was long, but it meant he was far from Oxenfurt. Far from the heartbreak that plagued him like a bad rash. He needed a good remedy and distance was the answer.

The travel through Temeria took longer than Jaskier anticipated and he spent many nights in taverns and the rare carriage. He played his lute, testing out some of his songs. Some crowds delighted in his playing, while others were just as quick to run him out of town. He never stayed long. Gulet was his destination. He had a job to do.

The manor belonging to Lord Gustall and his wife Lady Alada had an unassuming modesty about it. Bright flowers that consumed the columns and banisters were the only influence color and creativity had on the place. Inside was warmer, though not by much. Thick velvet curtains hung in every window and deeply dyed rugs covered the floors. It looked like its own miniature palace, a recreation of something greater. Even the air smelled of royalty, with perfumes and sugar and wine scenting every hall. It was too large, too excessive, and Jaskier loved it.

He heard the clacking of his boots on the hard floor as Jaskier made his way to the hall where the Lord and his men were convened. He was to bring a letter from Professor Reurig, confirming his talent and acceptance of the position. His things had already been taken, leaving him with only the letter and his lute strung behind his back. Bring the letter to Lord Gustall and get his assignment. That was it.

The great hall, the largest room in the entire manor, lacked any type of spectacle. Banners with coats of arms lined the walls and a grand table sat in the middle. Elsewhere on the sides, benches were tucked away if a larger audience was needed. The gold and fixtures of a normal hall were absent. Darkness consumed the room like a standing fog. Jaskier hoped most of his performances would take place in the other more luxurious rooms.

At the table sat a smattering of knights and lords. A large throne of a chair sat at the end, heavy and black. A man in dyed furs with dark trim was the chair’s occupant. His long, grey hair was pulled away from his face in a tight tie. His features were stern, hard as cement as he looked out upon his guests.

As Jaskier’s footsteps became apparent in the hall, the eyes of the table’s patrons looked up at him. He swallowed, continuing his sure steps. He made his way around the guests until he reached Lord Gustall at the head. With a small bow, Jaskier handed over the letter. Reurig’s seal remained neat and unbroken. In an instance, the lord burst through the wax and read silently. After he was finished, his eyes shifted up to Jaskier.

“So, you’re to be my wife’s bard?” Lord Gustall asked, turning to look up at Jaskier. He quirked a silver-flecked eyebrow. Jaskier nodded quickly.

“Professor Reurig told me of your acceptance,” he said, offering a charming smile. The lord looked largely unimpressed before dropping the letter on the table.

“You’ll do.”

**▲ ▲ ▲**

Lady Adala was a smiling, cheerful woman where her husband was grim and brooding. She loved Jaskier’s songs, singing along with the ones she knew and clapping with the ones she didn’t. She laughed at all of his jokes, no matter how filthy or unpracticed. Her fat cheeks would turn a blazing red and her eyes crinkled with humor by the end of every exchange with Jaskier. She was a captive audience for him, and he felt on top of the world.

Her husband was a different story. He never asked for Jaskier’s services other than at the occasional feast. And then it was only to entertain his wife and her gaggle of lady friends. The king never so much as cracked a smile when hearing his songs or japes. It was frustrating for Jaskier to be in the company of such a humorless man. He wanted to provoke a smile, if only a small one.

Lady Adala had settled in for her afternoon nap. The days were getting longer and the usually temperate climate was getting warm. The lady of the manor couldn’t bear to carry around her heavy silks and furs longer than a few hours. She would settle in for a nap for reprieve from the tireless heat. While she slept, Jaskier remained largely unoccupied. It gave him plenty of time to wander the manor, learning every secret nook and cranny.

That day, he wasn’t looking for much exploring. He knew where he wanted to go. The great hall vexed him. How could a place that hosted so much revelry be so drab? Could there not be some color or trimmings? Something to bring life back to the massive room. Jaskier was growing tired of its grim appearance. It was fitting for the man of the manor, but so counter to what Jaskier enjoyed.

He wandered into the room, eyeing the different carvings on the walls. Gargoyles and griffins pounced in the wood. The markings looked defensive, a sign of strength. It might be more intimidating if one didn’t have to squint just to see their ferocious fangs.

He ran a finger over one of the fixtures. This one was a gargoyle with its wings outstretched. Jaskier loved how the wood felt beneath his finger, tracing all of the joints of the wing. He contemplated if there was a magic that could bring all of the figures to life. One day, if there was fighting or war, all of the shapes would burst through and defend their master. It was a poetic, dreamy idea.

“Aren’t you meant to be tending to my wife?” a loud voice echoed across the hall.

Jaskier looked up from his musings to see Lord Gustall seated at the head of the great table. It had slipped his mind that the lord himself may be seeing to his duties in the great hall. Usually he reserved his business to his study on the second floor of the manor. Most of the days Jaskier had explored the cavernous hall he had been its only inhabitant.

“Your wife is asleep, I’m afraid,” Jaskier answered, walking towards the table. Just like the walls, shapes and beasts were carved into its glassy surface. The wood was decorated beautifully with a shiny coating, turning the brown to a strong black. The table looked as if a fire had consumed it and it rose from its ashes. The art of it all made Jaskier want to touch and run his fingers over every surface possible.

Lord Gustall made a noise equivocal to a snort at Jaskier’s statement. Jaskier was no stranger to the couple’s marital troubles. He heard the lady’s ranting at least thrice a week, telling him how her lord husband no longer called her to his bed. How she had tried to be the perfect lady for him. If Jaskier liked his position less, he would have offered to share her bed. She was comely, if only a little softer in some spots. He didn’t mind. But Lord Gustall chancing upon their coupling would surely leave him gelded and without an income. So Jaskier kept his hands to himself.

The pair were silent for much longer than Jaskier could handle. He had suffered long silences in Professor Reurig’s office while working as his secretary. The Professor was long winded and took time to gather his thoughts. Jaskier hated to admit he had spent those long moments with his eyes glued on his mentor. He reveled in his silences, giving him an opportunity to take in all of his rugged handsomeness. Now, Jaskier couldn’t stand silence. There was too much going unsaid in it.

“The detailing on your table is exquisite. The monsters, so brute and horrifying. And those fangs! They look like they might tear your guests’ entrails out just by looking. Imagine them coming to life and pouncing on all your dinner guests. It would certainly liven up the evening, don’t you think? It could use some more color…”

Jaskier trailed off, not having noticed the lord approaching him. By the time his words tapered off, Lord Gustall was standing a foot in front of him. Jaskier was frozen in his spot as the lord grabbed the chairs beside him and flung them to the side. The clattering of the wood made Jaskier wince. He didn’t have long to think before the lord’s lips were on his, claiming and aggressive.

It took only a moment for Jaskier to return the kiss. Lord Gustall’s lips were rough and chapped, scratching and scraping against Jaskier’s soft, pillowy ones. But he didn’t mind the pain. There was something about it that intoxicated him. He skimmed his tongue over a dry bottom lip, wetting it before nipping. He received a growl in response and hands pawing at his clothing.

Trousers were pulled down, dry fingers were shoved in Jaskier’s mouth, and he was being pressed onto the table. His back laid across the polished wood, the carvings digging into the meat of his thighs. If he closed his eyes, he could feel the fangs of a beast pricking him. He was prepared hastily and then the lord’s cock was sheathed in him. His member burned as it sank in.

No effort was needed on Jaskier’s part for their coupling. Lord Gustall was ferocious with his thrusts, like a man possessed. He took Jaskier with the strength and determination of a hound taking a bitch. Jaskier’s own cock, plumping slowly between his legs, slapped against his belly with each powerful entrance. All Jaskier could do was grasp at the wood, his nails slipping against the shiny surface. With nothing to get purchase on, he relied on the lord’s cock splitting him open to keep him anchored. His back would be sore from the wood in the morning.

After minutes of rough, bestial fucking, Jaskier screaming out with his release. A gloved hand was instantly slapped over his mouth and nose, silencing him. His breathing grew short as he was smothered by the lord’s large palm. His legs flailed as he fought for breath, trying and failing to kick him away. It was as his vision started to blacken that he felt Lord Gustall shoot inside him and finally bring his hand away. Jaskier gasped in lungful after lungful of air, every fiber of his body begging for it.

The lord pulled out with no flourish, tucking himself away and redoing his trousers. He looked at Jaskier, fucked out on the table, covered from belly to chin in his own release. A scoff came from Lord Gustall.

“Clean yourself up before my wife wakes up,” he ordered, his voice dripping with disgust. “And you will be in my chambers when she sleeps tonight.”

Jaskier, still sucking sweet air into his lungs, nodded at the order.

**▲ ▲ ▲**

Jaskier learned quickly that Lord Gustall’s near suffocation of him was not just a fluke. The lord was a violent man, he’d known that from word around the manor. But his violence translated best into his treatment of his bedmates. As Jaskier found himself entangled in his sheets, he became a first-hand witness to his cruelty.

The night before, Jaskier was thrown to the bed, his clothes ripped from his body. He tried showing up in the nude once to spare his poor outfits, but the lord had yelled and forced him to change. He liked undressing him. Defiling him.

After hitting the bed with force enough to make the wood groan in protest, a punch came down on his face. He couldn’t move his arms fast enough to deflect the hit. His eye and cheekbone were victim to the blow, turning a bright red and preparing to bruise. Tears sprung into his eyes as he curled over, trying to escape any more hits. None came. Instead, hard lips came down on the mark, kissing it wetly.

“Oh, my love. My beautiful love,” Lord Gustall cooed as he spread Jaskier back out. He took him with the same hunger as the first night. He no longer prepared him, requiring Jaskier to do so himself so he needn’t waste time. He slid home and dug a thumb into where his punch was starting to turn an angry shade of purple on Jaskier’s face. Jaskier yelped out in pain and was silenced by a heavy hand.

“You don’t want to make me mad.”

Jaskier had brought himself to a quick finish, gripping his cock and jerking with hurried movements. When his muscles clenched and he released, tears rolled down his cheeks. Even his orgasms hurt, forced and quick. A way to a fast end. The lord wasn’t far behind and then rolled over and fell asleep. Jaskier slipped out with his ruined clothes, padding back to his quarters, ache settled deep inside him. In the morning, the bruise on his eye was fully formed. It was the most obvious hit yet. Lord Gustall had thus far kept his blows hidden from the eyes of the manor. His back, his stomach, his thighs. Those were all accustomed to his aggressions. But his face, that was new. Jaskier grimaced at the ugly piece, framing his bright blue eye. His face was where he derived most of his beauty. Now what would they think of him?

It so happened that the same day Jaskier received his marking was the day of a great feast at the manor. Preparations were in order and Lady Adala was much too busy for Jaskier’s songs and stories. He would have to wait until the party to woo the crowd with his ballads. He didn’t feel like singing or joking or begging for coin. He wanted a warm bed and quiet. But he knew the hell to be paid if he didn’t show up lively and cheerful.

Jaskier drifted around the party, singing as he was expected. He told stories of great knights and foul beasts. Women giggled and gasped as he threw a wink their way. Some looked pitifully upon him, surely noticing the bruise that made its home on his face. Others listened, hummed, and clapped for him. It was enough to make him forget the pain searing behind his eye. He was on the floor, working the crowd. It was his place.

He was ending a verse of a tale of a princess locked in a tower guarded by an ugly harpy when a hand tugged at his elbow. A flinch and Jaskier was turning to who grabbed him. He expected it to be a woman or maybe even Lord Gustall himself. He didn’t expect the hand to belong to Sir Eleric of…well, Jaskier didn’t remember. But he remembered that face. It was usually hidden behind a helm, but as he looked upon Jaskier, his head was bare.

“Sir Eleric?” Jaskier asked, eyebrow raised. Eleric esteemed himself as the head on the manor’s guard. He was to live and die for his lord. Jaskier didn’t have the guts to tell him that he thought Lord Gutstall would be just fine on his own.

His questions didn’t receive an answer. Sir Eleric pried open Jaskier’s hand, still holding onto the neck of his lute. A slip of parchment was deposited and then the knight turned, leaving Jaskier to his silence. Who was this knight? Not even deigning him with a look and now giving him messages. Part of Jaskier feared it was from the lord, telling him to do something degrading or worse.

When he opened the parchment, ‘Meet me in the garden’ was scrawled in rough script. It looked like a man who was made for holding swords wrote it. It wasn’t the lord’s practiced script, but something much harsher. This had to be Eleric’s own writing. Jaskier followed the direction of the knight’s earlier steps, watching as they retreated from the great hall.

Meet me in the garden.

Jaskier slipped from the room unnoticed. By this point, most of the guests were deep in their cups. They wouldn’t care if the bard disappeared for a quick nighttime conversation with the head of the household guard. What that conversation was about, Jaskier was dying to know. He walked quicker than he intended and slipped through the door to the garden. 

Outside, Sir Eleric stood, helm in his hand, sword at his back. Jaskier stepped closer, closing the door tight behind him. It was all so mysterious. The poetic part of him thought this was a great start to a good story. What kind of deep secrets could Sir Eleric divulge? More importantly, how would Jaskier stay quiet with all of them?

Another step and Eleric looked up.

“Jaskier,” he began, taking a step closer. He looked almost frantic, looking over his shoulder for a brief moment. “We could get in a lot of trouble if Lord Gustell finds out about our meeting.”

Jaskier snorted. “Then you better spit it out before he sees.”

That comment earned a sigh. Eleric straightened his shoulders, obviously gathering his thoughts. Jaskier waited impatiently for his moment of thought.

“He hurts you. I know he does,” Eleric disclosed. Jaskier pursed his lips.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Another sigh. “It is the duty of the household guard to protect the king. At all times. Even when he is in his chambers.”

Realization washed over Jaskier. The guards could hear. They knew when he was in there. They probably heard all of their great lord’s punches and creaking of the bedframe. Humiliation was Jaskier’s first reaction, then understanding. Was Sir Eleric trying to help him? Or was he going to tell him to keep making their lord happy?

Eleric didn’t wait for an answer from Jaskier.

“I want to help you get out of here. I can sneak you out and you can go somewhere else. Anywhere else.”

It sounded nice. The coin in the lord’s manor was good, but Jaskier tired of the bruises and beatings. The one on his face throbbed as he considered Eleric’s offer. He wanted to leave. He wanted to be anywhere but trapped with the violent lord.

“How?” he asked, looking around them to see if they had an audience. The crickets sung. An owl hooted in a far away tree. They were still alone.

“There are tunnels under the manor. I can bring you under and we will come out outside. You will have enough time to get away before they notice you’re gone.”

Jaskier knew about the tunnels. He hadn’t attempted to brave an escape himself, knowing full well it was a perfect place to get caught by a guard or worse. They would let him out into the field of grass and flowers outside the manor. He could sneak through the grass until he reached the mountains. He would have a straight shot to the Valley of Flowers after that. He could start a new life there, away from the lords and the professors and the people who meant to hurt him.

“When?”

Sir Eleric straighten his spine, looking pleased that Jaskier had agreed to go with him. “We can leave tonight. The feast will be winding down. No one will notice if we slip away.”

Tonight? It was so soon. But no time was better than today. Jaskier would only need to pack his things and be ready to leave. He nodded.

“I will get my things. Where will we meet?”

Eleric told him to meet him outside the servants’ quarters. From there they could find the door. They would need to walk past the wine cellar and there would be the tunnels. A short walk and Jaskier was out. He nodded again, fast and excitedly. He was getting out tonight.

The two parted and it didn’t take long for Jaskier to pack up his belongings. He secured his bag and lute on his back. One last look at his quarters and he was gone. His reprieve was coming, and it was because a knight was helping him. A noble knight who wanted to save someone like Jaskier. It was out of one of his long-winded stories. Jaskier still didn’t know if he was really worth saving.

They met outside the servants’ quarters as promised. Sir Eleric held a torch in his hand, trying to quell the light with his hand while they snuck through the halls. They found the door that took them down and were plunged into darkness. The only light came from the torch in Eleric’s steady grasp. They passed the barrels of wine and through another archway. The tunnels stunk of moss and rot. Jaskier couldn’t even be bothered by it.

“Thank you for helping me,” Jaskier said with a grin.

Eleric was a few paces behind him, holding the light so he could see. The tunnel was washed in a dull light of the torch. Jaskier soldiered on, putting one foot in front of the other. He didn’t notice that Eleric had stopped until the light started to dim. He turned heading back towards the light.

“What are you-?” Jaskier began as he watched Eleric place the torch in one of the holders bolted to the wall. Before he could finish his question, Eleric had him pushed against the wall. His hands grabbed for his clothes, pulling first at his doublet, then his trousers. Jaskier squirmed away from his grip.

“I think you owe me, bard,” Eleric grunted in his ear. He grabbed his hands, pinning them above his head. Jaskier thrashed against his hold. It was to no avail. He kicked and Eleric slipped a leg between his.

Lips attacked his neck, biting at his skin like he was a meal to be feasted upon. With a hand freed, Eleric got back to work removing Jaskier’s trousers. He bunched them around his knees before turning to his own. In the moment it took him to undo the laces, Jaskier could scream out.

“Help!” he yelled, struggling against the hold on his hands. “Someone! Help me!”

Eleric grunted and grabbed Jaskier’s leg. He hiked it up, trying to give himself access to his entrance. His cock was hard as the steel of his sword. Jaskier continued his litany of pleas, screaming for someone to help. His cries grew louder as Eleric tried to shove himself into him. It was only a swivel of Jaskier’s hips that kept him from entering his body.

Another grunt of displeasure came from Eleric. He readied himself to try again when loud footsteps hurried down the tunnel. Before he could detatch himself from Jaskier’s wriggling frame, two more guards and Lord Gustell stood before them. Their torches illuminated their closeness and nakedness. Jaskier swore he saw the lord’s face turn angrier than he’d ever seen.

“What is the meaning of this?!” Lord Gustell roared.

The rage in his voice got Eleric to let Jaskier go. Jaskier hastily pulled his trousers over himself, caring little if they were snug. With his body free, all he could do was run. As fast as his body could carry him, Jaskier ran to the end of the tunnel. He ran into the flowers and the grass. He ran until he collapsed, far, far away from the reach of the lord.

**▲ ▲ ▲ ▲ ▲ ▲ ▲ ▲ ▲**

Jaskier told himself over and over that Geralt wasn’t different. Geralt might be a Witcher, a _mutant_ , but he was still a man. The thing Jaskier knew about men was that they were trouble. You could befriend them, share a drink or meal with them even, but never bed them. It was when the bedding began that the troubles started. No, he had sworn off men for the rest of his days. Women were just fine for his sexual appetites.

But then there was Geralt. Pig-headed, violent, angry Geralt. He was everything that Jaskier knew to stay away from. The Witcher fascinated him and his actions were a tremendous muse. Something drew him to the White Wolf like a moth to a flame. It took every ounce of his restraint for Jaskier to remind himself that Geralt was off-limits. They could be friends – best friends in the whole wide world, actually – but he could not feel anything more.

It was a struggle. The gods really were good at testing Jaskier. Geralt was much more carefree with his body than Jaskier had originally assumed. He had no qualms with stripping naked in front of him. Whether it was for a quick bath in a river or a long soak in an inn tub, he didn’t appear to mind if Jaskier saw him. Sometimes it almost looked like he _wanted_ Jaskier to see him. It just wasn’t fair.

It took nearly ten years for Jaskier to give in. He was so good for all that time. He took all of his fantasies out on the woman of the Continent. That usually got him in more trouble than it was worth. But they were women. They weren’t Geralt. They weren’t men. Their husbands could chase him and threaten every punishment imaginable. They still couldn’t hurt him.

A moment of weakness after Geralt’s Child of Surprise was what did him in. Geralt was fuming, anger and frustration radiating from him. Jaskier tried to soothe his mind, but was hit with a quick “Shut up, Jaskier.” Geralt stomped angrily around their room at the inn. He practically ripped the clothes Jaskier had dressed him in off his body. His hair came loose from the neat tie that held it from his face. When he was completely bare, his chest heaving and his eyes dark, he looked at Jaskier. That one look, full of heat and rage and something he couldn’t discern, shattered Jaskier’s resolve.

Jaskier hadn’t understood why people used phrases like “making love” until he had Geralt. Everything with him was slow. Kisses were languid, touching and tasting in a way Jaskier had never felt. Geralt’s rough bites were always soothed with a lick or kiss. He took his time in preparing Jaskier, opening him up with sweet smelling oil until he was writhing and begging. And when he pushed his cock into him, it was inch by inch, watching Jaskier’s face for discomfort. His hands cradled Jaskier’s hips or his face or his thighs. He would help wrap Jaskier’s legs and arms around him, telling him to hold on. He fucked into him and Jaskier dug his nails into his back. It didn’t hurt; it felt so good he wanted to cry.

Another lovemaking session ended with Jaskier’s head on Geralt’s chest. He could hear the slow thump of Geralt’s heartbeat beneath his ear. An arm encircled his waist, cradling his hip. Jaskier hummed, eyes staring straight forward as he thought. Laying there, held in Geralt’s arms, he felt safe. Safer than he had in decades.

“Geralt?” Jaskier whispered, tracing a scar on his side with the tip of his finger.

“Hmm?” Geralt hummed back.

Jaskier took a deep breath. “Thank you.”

The arm not holding his hip moved to rest on Jaskier’s arm. The large calloused fingers moved as delicately as they could on his pale skin. Geralt was trying to be soft and Jaskier wanted to cry.

“For?” Geralt asked, voice thick with its own flavor of worry.

Jaskier smiled. “For keeping me safe.”

There was a pause where only their breaths were heard. Geralt’s hand moved in the same soothing strokes. Jaskier traced the shape of another scar, feeling the smooth skin against his finger. The grip on his hip tightened and released in a squeeze. The room was quiet and Jaskier reveled in it. His eyes watered with the contentment of it all.

Then, Geralt took a breath.

“I will always keep you safe, my little lark.”

Jaskier believed him.


End file.
